Michelle Willingham Page 7

  Caragh moved towards his pallet, giving him no means of escape. She set the wooden board on the ground between them, and he recognised it as a variant of duodecim scripta, a game he’d known from his homeland. ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘My brother won it off a traveller from Burgundy.’

  The board consisted of two opposing rows of black triangles with game pieces made of bone. The dice were carved from antlers, and she gave him his pieces, explaining the rules which were similar to those he already knew.

  ‘You must move the pieces to your home ground and afterwards, you can begin removing them. Whichever of us removes all the pieces first will win.’

  He took a sip of his mead, watching as she set out her own pieces. A long lock of dark hair hung over one shoulder, and her cheeks were flushed from the drink. Her blue eyes held merriment and a trace of wickedness as she said, ‘Are you prepared to lose, Lochlannach?’

  His sense of competition sharpened, and he took the dice from her, his hands brushing against her warm fingers. ‘And what if you lose?’

  ‘Then I’ll have to pay a forfeit. Just as you will.’ When she leaned on one arm, the neckline of her gown slipped down one shoulder, revealing bare skin. Styr dropped the dice rapidly, wrenching his gaze away as he moved the first game piece.

  ‘And what could you possibly offer me?’ His instincts heightened, wondering what she would say.

  ‘Your weapons and your cloak,’ she offered. ‘They are mine now, since I took you prisoner.’

  ‘And what would my forfeit be, if by some miracle of the gods, you were to win?’

  She smiled. ‘More food for me and my people.’

  Her honesty diffused his tension, as he realised that she was respecting the boundaries between them. Earlier, when her hands had touched his chest, she’d looked like a woman waiting to be kissed.

  By the gods, if he were unwed, he’d have taken her. He’d have captured her mouth, pulling her slender body to his and exploring those curves with his hands.

  Tasting and touching her until she broke forth a throaty moan.

  Odin’s blood, but the sexual abstinence was taking command of his senses. When he found Elena again, he intended to coax her back into desiring him. His blood was hot, his needs making it impossible to think clearly.

  With effort, he wrenched his mind back into reality. ‘Where do you think your brother took Elena and the others?’

  ‘Possibly Áth Cliath. Or Dubh Linn,’ she admitted, moving her own piece. ‘He’s been there before with my father, when he was a boy. But even if he did, I’m not certain what he planned to do with his prisoners. He might have released them along the shore.’

  Styr didn’t believe it. If his kinsmen had let themselves be taken captive, it was for Elena’s sake. More likely they had killed Brendan and the other Irishmen. He moved his pieces again, taking one of Caragh’s. ‘We’ll sail at dawn to find them. Enough time has been wasted.’

  He made his next move, but she captured his piece, taking it for her own. ‘Your wife is unharmed,’ she promised. ‘I believe that.’

  Releasing a slow breath, she contemplated her next move, while he rolled the dice. As they played, she kept his goblet full of mead, and he used it to drown out the voices of betrayal in his mind.

  Caragh was winning the game, and her smile was triumphant as she moved the piece again. In the golden firelight, her face was haloed, her blue eyes filled with excitement. Her gown mirrored the intense colour, and it made him frown when he made his next move.

  ‘You said you kept this gown, when you should have sold it. Was there a reason?’

  ‘I was to be married in it.’ She rolled the dice, considering where to move the next piece.

  ‘What happened?’

  She captured another piece of his and shrugged. ‘I found Kelan sharing another woman’s bed.’ Though she spoke in a calm tone, he caught the note of anger in her voice.

  ‘You’re well rid of him,’ Styr said. He couldn’t imagine Caragh betrothed to a man like that. It explained Kelan’s jealous behaviour, but he didn’t know why she would have agreed to wed him in the first place.

  ‘Perhaps.’ She shook her head, her lips drawn in a line as she studied the board.

  There was no perhaps about it. Why would Caragh lower herself to a man like that?

  She removed one of her pieces from the board. ‘My brothers were angry and wanted to kill Kelan for me. I refused to allow it.’

  His estimation of her brothers rose a notch. ‘He hasn’t given up on you, has he?’ He took one of his own pieces off the board.

  ‘No. He wants my forgiveness, but I can’t bring myself to forget what he did. He said he loves me, and it was a moment of weakness.’

  Styr snorted. ‘Loves you?’ He moved another piece across the board and shook his head. ‘You don’t believe that, do you?’

  ‘Once, I did.’ Her face furrowed, and she slid a game piece to a darker triangle. ‘Don’t you love your wife?’

  ‘Love has nothing to do with marriage. I owe her my protection, and I intend to find her.’ The idea of love had been beaten out of him as a boy. His parents had trained his brother and him to be a future jarl, as was their duty, but there was no love involved in his upbringing.

  Absently, he reached a hand up to his chin, fingering the scar where his father had struck him. He’d learned not to weep or show any sign of emotion. Emotions were for the weak-minded, and they never served a man well in battle.

  Styr moved another game piece, not wanting to reveal more. The truth was, he did care about Elena. He’d wanted her to be happy in their marriage, although when her barrenness was evident, she’d begun refusing him. She didn’t love him, if she ever had—that was clear enough. But now, it was rare to see her smile.

  Divorcing her was possible, but he didn’t want to admit his own failure. And she’d agreed to come here, which meant she wasn’t entirely ready to give up on their marriage. What kind of man would he be if he’d taken her from her homeland, only to leave her?

  No, somehow, they would solve the problems between them.

  ‘Elena has been a good wife to me,’ he admitted. ‘I respect her.’

  But Caragh’s expression held confusion, as if she didn’t understand. ‘Was your marriage arranged?’

  He nodded. ‘I agreed with my father, that the match was a strong one. Her family approved of it, as well.’ It was only Elena who had seemed intimidated by the marriage. She’d hardly spoken to him after their betrothal.

  Now, he wondered if she had objected to it. No one had said anything to him in the past...but had they forced her to wed him? He frowned at the thought.

  Caragh removed another piece, leaving only two remaining. ‘It hurt, when Kelan turned to another,’ she continued. ‘I caught him embracing her and—’ she closed her eyes ‘—touching her.’

  ‘It’s good that you didn’t wed him.’

  ‘I can’t help but think that I should have done something differently.’ She gave him a rueful smile. ‘I might have a husband and children now, if I had. Maybe if I hadn’t talked so much, or maybe if I tried to be more careful with the way I looked.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with you, Caragh.’

  She shook her head, not listening. ‘Then why am I still alone?’ Heartbreak resonated in the words.

  Styr rolled the dice again, taking a sip from his mead. It was clear that love did matter to a woman like Caragh. He was tempted to speak words of reassurance. To tell her that those men were fools not to want her. But he kept silent, not wanting her to suspect his own thoughts.

  Her blue eyes watched him, as if trying to discern an answer. To avoid it, Styr took his final piece from the board.

  ‘You win,’ Caragh conceded, drawing her knees up beneath her gown. ‘I suppose I’ll have to return your cloak now.’

  ‘No, the battleaxe,’ he corrected. ‘Put my cloak over the wall I damaged.’ If they were staying, he might consider repairing it
. But it wouldn’t matter, once they were gone.

  Caragh yawned and began to put away the pieces. Styr helped her, and when the game was put away, she turned abruptly and nearly stumbled. He caught her, to prevent a fall, but her hands rested upon his forearms a moment too long.

  ‘Your wife is a fortunate woman,’ she murmured, her gaze upon his. Her violet eyes were studying him in a wistful way that was far too dangerous. The warmth of her hands upon him was more welcome than it should have been. Styr felt the touch sinking into him, like a balm. He shut down the thought immediately.

  ‘Caragh, don’t. You’ve had too much to drink.’

  She nodded, pursing her lips. ‘I have, yes. But, for a moment...you looked as lonely as I feel.’ She closed her eyes a moment, as if gathering courage. ‘And I wondered if everything was all right between you and your wife. You looked sad, for a moment.’

  Styr put her hands aside and walked away. ‘What’s between Elena and myself is no concern of yours.’ He didn’t care how hard his words sounded. The reason for their estrangement had everything to do with her inability to conceive a child, nothing more. Once she became pregnant, all would be well again. He believed that.

  He didn’t like the direction of his thoughts. The more time he spent around Caragh, the more he found himself wanting to ensure that she was protected, that she had enough to eat. If his thoughts towards her were of a sisterly nature, it wouldn’t bother him so much. But they weren’t. He admitted to himself that he was attracted to her, much as he hated himself for it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘You’re right. It has nothing to do with me.’ With that, she retreated to her pallet and pulled a coverlet over her body.

  Styr stoked up the fire, watching the sparks float into the air. The mead had discoloured his judgement, and he didn’t like the direction of his thoughts.

  He was lonely.

  And he would be a liar if he didn’t admit he’d considered ending his marriage. For all he knew, the fault could be his, and perhaps he had been the one cursed with the inability to have children. What right did he have to bind Elena into a marriage where she would never have a child, when he knew how desperately she wanted one?

  The thoughts plagued him as he returned to his own bed, wondering what would happen when he found her once more.

  * * *

  The sound of the door opening awoke him from sleep. Styr stared into the shadows, the faint glow of the peat fire offering the only light.

  The intruder didn’t speak, but crept towards the food Caragh had preserved in baskets. Styr had a strong suspicion of who the thief was. He watched the man as he took the basket, sneaking outside again.

  Without a warning to Caragh, Styr reached for the battleaxe that she’d returned to him last night. Following the intruder, he caught up to the man and saw that it was Kelan, as he’d suspected.

  ‘Drop the basket,’ he commanded.

  Kelan spun, and the flash of his blade gleamed against the morning fog. He dropped the basket, advancing upon him.

  ‘Are you that dishonourable, that you would steal food from a starving woman?’ Styr demanded. ‘When she shared what she had with you?’

  ‘She shared with you as well,’ the man accused. ‘And you’re nothing but a murderer. That makes her a traitor to us.’ He sliced his knife through the clouded air, circling him.

  Styr dodged the blow, swinging with his own weapon. He heard the sound of a door striking against the frame, Caragh calling out to him.

  ‘Please don’t fight,’ she begged, as Kelan moved in with his blade.

  ‘He’s a thief, Caragh,’ Styr countered. ‘I should have killed him when I had the chance.’

  She darted forwards and seized the basket. Styr blocked another blow with the axe and struck out at the man, his fist connecting with Kelan’s jaw. In his enemy’s eyes, he saw desperation and the mark of a coward.

  Caragh came closer again, pleading, ‘Stop this. I don’t want either of you to be hurt.’

  ‘I suppose you’re sharing his bed, aren’t you, Caragh? Whoring yourself to the enemy.’

  She stumbled back, her face flushed. ‘I’ve done no such thing. He was my prisoner, until last night.’

  ‘I suppose he was glad to be chained up, for your use,’ Kelan taunted. When she covered her mouth with her hands, appalled, he backhanded her, sending her to the ground. Reaching for the basket of fish, he started to flee, but Styr dived upon him. He ignored the knife and rolled with his enemy on the ground, determined to protect her.

  Fury raged through Styr. Kelan was a dishonourable thief, one who ought to be punished for his deeds.

  He raised his battleaxe, prepared to slice the man’s throat, when suddenly, strong arms dragged him backwards. Two men, with strength to equal his own, hauled him away from Kelan. Though Styr tried to break free, they held him back.

  ‘Kelan was trying to steal food from me,’ Caragh explained to the men. She stood before them, and from their physical resemblance, Styr guessed who they were.

  ‘Take your belongings and leave the ringfort,’ the taller man commanded Kelan. ‘If you set foot upon Gall Tír again, your life will be the forfeit.’

  The man’s face was murderous as he stood. But he moved towards his own home within the ringfort. Caragh’s shoulders lowered with relief when he’d gone.

  ‘Let the Lochlannach go, Ronan,’ she ordered, reaching past Styr to hug the taller man. ‘Terence, you, too. He was only defending me.’

  Her brothers, he guessed. And from the dark look in their eyes, they were wondering whether or not to kill him. Behind the men, he spied two horses burdened with large bundles that likely contained food and supplies.

  Caragh came to stand beside him. ‘This is Styr Hardrata.’ Though her words were steady, Styr caught the warning flash in her eyes. He couldn’t quite tell what she wanted, but held his tongue.

  ‘And why would my sister be harbouring a Lochlannach?’ Ronan demanded. ‘Were you attacked?’

  Styr gave no answer, but nodded to Caragh, letting her give what explanation she would.

  ‘Brendan attacked them when they arrived a few days ago,’ she explained. ‘He and his friends were planning to steal their supplies.’

  Styr eyed the two brothers, and the taller man stared back, his face set in a grim line. ‘Where is he now?’

  Caragh shook her head. ‘I don’t know. We were going to search for him today, in Father’s boat.’

  Ronan expelled a curse, and then his gaze tightened upon his sister. ‘We?’ From the dark look in his eyes, Styr knew what the man was thinking.

  ‘Yes.’ Caragh lifted her chin as if to defy her brother. ‘At first, Styr was my prisoner,’ she confessed. ‘But...now, he is...’ She faltered as if searching for a reason.

  Desperate, she caught his gaze and abruptly moved her arm around his waist. She managed a smile for her brothers, as if her action were explanation enough.

  The touch of her arm around him sent up a flare of warning. Styr didn’t know what her intentions were, but the unexpected touch was far too familiar. She was trying to make her brothers believe that there was more than friendship between them, and the gesture bothered him.

  Worse, he was acutely aware of the soft heat from her skin, the scent of her hair. He tensed, as if that could stop him from feeling anything at all. Frustration coiled inside him, but he didn’t push her away. Not until he understood what she was trying to do.

  ‘But now?’ Terence repeated, eyeing his sister with distrust. The man rested his hand upon the sword hanging from his scabbard. Though he kept his tone calm, his grey eyes held a warning. ‘Give me a reason why I should spare the life of a Lochlannach.’

  Caragh took a deep breath, choosing her words carefully. She didn’t look at Styr, but neither did she release him. ‘Now, he has come to mean far more to me.’ She tightened her grip around Styr’s waist, as if pleading with him not to speak. ‘Don’t harm him, Terence. You saw for yourself, how he
defended me.’ Her hand moved up to rest upon Styr’s heart, her fingers grazing the skin beneath his throat.

  That was all it took for his body to respond to her. His heartbeat quickened, and he loathed himself for the involuntary reaction. Gently, he removed her hands and remarked, ‘I don’t need your protection, Caragh.’

  There was a glint of approval in Ronan’s eyes. Styr suspected he might be the leader of the tribe, from the way he stood back, assessing both of them. He was taller than his brother, with dark hair like his sister. His beard was sheared close to his skin, and there was a leanness to him, as if he, too, had suffered from the famine. Even so, from the protective nature of the man, Ronan wouldn’t take kindly to anyone speaking against Caragh.

  ‘Why did you come here?’ Terence demanded. The shorter man was thin, like his brother, but still heavily muscled. There was a hint of darkness to his tone, as if he were trying to provoke a fight.

  ‘We came to trade, and to settle here before your brother attacked us.’

  Terence smirked. ‘Then you were defeated by adolescent boys. I’d have liked to see that.’

  Styr’s hand shot out and gripped the man’s throat. He squeezed just hard enough to make his point. ‘My men hadn’t slept in days, after the storms at sea. They were not at their full strength.’

  ‘Let him go, Lochlannach,’ Ronan ordered. The point of his blade rested at Styr’s throat. ‘We have more questions that need answering.’

  Styr loosened his grip, though he stared hard into Terence’s eyes with a silent threat of his own. When he released the man, Terence stepped back, rubbing the skin of his throat.

  ‘You said you were going to search for Brendan,’ Ronan interrupted. ‘Where do you think he sailed?’

  ‘Caragh thinks he may have gone to Áth Cliath.’ He made no mention of Elena’s capture, for he was still uncertain of Caragh’s intent. He doubted if her brothers believed her suggestion that they were more than friends, because the men were staring at him with distrust. Yet, despite the fact that he’d nearly strangled Terence, they viewed him with a wary respect. Like him, they were warriors. And they now knew that he could defend himself.